newyorkette

Click on it for a close-up. (image: carolita johnson)

Okay, so I wasn’t too sure about the invitation (yesterday’s post), so I tried something a little more like I’m used to doing (above). Rejected! But, the version in yesterday’s post was definitely iffy, only half-baked, as it were. It has been improved upon, with the big bubble having been transformed into a clock, and the others eliminated. Too many black lines, I decided.

Have a look at the finished product, here. You may even want to accept the invitation, if you can afford it! (I only celebrate my new year, i.e. my birthday! I never go out on Dec. 31st — the world is crazy enough for me on a normal day!).

Any expression of preference between the two versions welcome! (Personally, I prefer the simpler, rejected version, which looks more old-fashioned to me. But I can see what’s likeable about the accepted version, there’s something intoxicating about the champagne background, and it’s definitely more festive.)

(image: carolita johnson)

The Baby New Year’s allowed, isn’t he? This is an invitation I’m working on for The Bubble Lounge. My biggest problem right now is deciding whether to use my own handwriting (which involves a lot of retouching), or find a cool font. Still thinking about it. This is just a portion of the whole, as more room is needed in order to fill in the details of the evening (prices, drinks, dj, etc.).

(And on the “adverlita” front, I’ve just added one for Crawford in the sidebar as part of my non-corporate advertising campaign! It’s my second adverlita — the first one being for the “bird parka”!)

In a little nook on the periphery of Astor Place, you’ll find a teeny tiny little place that you might walk past even if you were looking for it (as I have, many a time), were it not for the wisely installed bright flags with Japanese writing on either side of it’s narrow front. It’s not a sit-down place. In fact, you’ll be lucky to find standing room on a cold day. But it’s yummy. It’s “Japanese comfort food,” as the little sign inside says. If you don’t mind rubbing elbows, stand inside. There’s a bench outside that seats three strangers, or four friends.

The thing you want to appreciate is that this is the Japanese equivalent of hot dogs or knishes. In Japan, you’ll find this food at the outdoor markets. I know, because I’ve had “Takoyaki” there myself. What is Takoyaki? They are defined at Otafuku as “octopus balls.” Who am I to say different? You get six, with some dark savoury sauce and a dollop of mayo as a topping (they ask you how much you want before they dollop it), finished off with a sprinkling of bonito shavings. The light pastry outside contrasts with the hot, creamy inside, and the little chunk of octopus you’ll find, usually on the second (and final) bite of each “ball.” You can even watch them being made on their little rolling, vibrating grill in the window. If octopus balls don’t tempt you, go for the cheese or plain versions.

Other warm, comforting snacks include the well-known Yakisoba, and the lesser known, but no less soothing to a hypoglycemic 4 o’clock zombie, Okonomiyaki. Otafuku is also one of the only places that won’t cost you an arm and a leg and take an hour and a half if you’re hungry in the neighborhood. Have a snack there while you wait for Decibel (my favorite saké bar) to open, just down the block, at basement level.

Otafuku
236 East 9th
212-353-8503

(image: carolita johnson)

This week is “The Cartoon Issue!” You know what that means, don’t you? It means you can go back to just looking at the cartoons! (Most of it’s not online, so you’ll have to read the paper version.) I’m not part of the cartoonist roster this time but a commissioned pair of cartoons of mine is featured in one of the magazine’s ads this week. The product? Ahem. Look for the header that begins, “Bathroom confidential…” Need a drawing for a prostate medication ad? I’m your girl!

(Image: carolita johnson)

A very rough, inexact (windows aren’t centered properly), very quick sketch (finished before I realized I had forgotten to put my glasses on), of the view from my kitchen in Hamilton Heights, NY.

Look familiar?

I was only 6 years old, but I’ll never forget Iron Eyes Cody’s very beautiful 1971 “Keep America Beautiful” public service announcement. If you’re too young to remember it yourself, click on the image for the video.

Get Iron Eyes Cody’s book, “Indian Talk” from the Akta Lakota Museum and Cultural Center, here.

As for Thanksgiving, I give thanks every day, thank you! (See?)

(image: carolita johnson)

Thanksgiving is looming up and bringing back memories sitting around on the living room floor, watching old B movies. When I was a kid, we didn’t have cable (other people did, my parents just wouldn’t pay for it! — I’m not that old!), so the old movies consisted mostly of Three Stooges marathons, and Abbot and Costello classics, like “Abbot and Costello meet the Mummy!”

(image: carolita johnson)

Last time I went to Brighton Beach to spend a couple of peaceful weekday hours in the sun with my New Yorker magazine, I stopped in a kosher deli to get a bottle of water. The man behind the counter was an orthodox Jew who looked at me with playful acuity and demanded outright: “You speak Yiddish? You look Jewish — are you Jewish?”

I explained to him that I was not Jewish, but that there was some question as to whether or not my father was Jewish.
“Ahaaa-a?” he cawed encouragingly.
“Well,” I said, “He says he’s not Jewish, but his mother’s name was Anna Blumenstein.”
“Aha.”
“And her mother, also named Anna Blumenstein, was remarkable for going to business school in Philadelphia in 1917 for business studies, and turned out to be a very shrewd businesswoman…”
“Aha.”
“And my father used to drink Manischewitz wine…”
“Aha!”
“But then he stopped.”
“Aha?”
“Because he found a cheaper wine…”
“Aha!”
“It came in Tetra-Pak cartons, and he’d transfer this cheaper wine into the empty Manischewitz bottles he’d saved and keep them in the refrigerator.”
“Ah…haaa…”
“So, what do you think?”
“I have a feeling,” he said with a mischievous smile, “It’s just a feeling, but I think ma-a-a-a-ybe…,” and here he paused with his finger in the air, and his eyes looking sideways at his finger, then turning back, nodding his head complicitely at me, “…your father’s Jewish. It’s a feeling I have.”

I speak as much Yiddish as the next New Yorker, which is plenty. In fact, when my South American grandmother came to New York, she thought that the English word for “God bless you” (as part of the sneezing protocol) was “gesundheit,” which she pronounced, “Gasoonti!”

(image: carolita johnson)

I’ll never forget the first time I read Descartes’ “Discours de la Méthode.” He claimed to have had an epiphany after climbing into an oven (and not the “Hey, I’m in an oven!” kind of epiphany). Having grown up in Queens, where the only oven I’d ever seen was about two square feet big, I took him for a liar. An oven? Was he, as an Italian woman once said to a friend of mine, “pushing my leg?” I was obliged to suspend my disbelief to continue reading and prepare my homework. (It turned out ovens used to be quite roomy in Descartes’ day!) Anthony Gottlieb, in “Think again,” clears away any cobwebs that may have accumulated since the first time you read (or read about) Descartes, and goes even further to explain how you arrived at the popular misconceptions his Discours is prey to: Descartes did not do for the individual what Galileo did for the sun. Not on purpose, anyway.

Also unforgettable is Bill Buford’s “Talking Turkey,” wherein you will fall in love with the man who learned to talk with the animals (not just turkeys, but field mice too, to the chagrin of his turkeys), but your heart will be broken by the fate of Turkey Boy, which remains unspoken at the end and which I take to mean that he tasted very good with cranberry sauce and yams. It’s not online, but Matt Dellinger interviews Bill in “Calls of the Wild,” on the Hard Drive.

Anyone who was ever enamored of the fact that the “Epic of Gilgamesh,” and Homer’s “Iliad” were once purely oral tradition will quickly become engrossed in William Dalrymple’s “Homer in India,” and wish they had half the memory capacity of the illiterate farmers capable of reciting for eight hours a day for a month till the epic encased in their memory is finally unrolled completely. And then rolled back up again, perhaps never more to be recited, since the tradition is dying along with the humans that live them. Not online.

Little Neck Bay, just before sunset.

Yes, it is New York, technically. This is Little Neck Bay, seen from way down at the bottom of Little Neck Parkway, in my favorite spot in suburbia.

(Image: carolita johnson)

(Yes, I’m late! I got waylaid painting the bathroom!)

I’ve always been intrigued by those personal ads along the lines of “interested in friendship, romance, or more.” More? I mean, if you’re resorting to the personal ads, should you really be pushing it?

Does anyone remember that commercial years and years ago for “Oliver!” the musical? Where the gruel man says, “MORE???” in the most flabbergasted voice when Oliver asks for more food? My buddies and I would jump on any opportunity to say, “MORE???” to eachother. Well, I searched high and low on the net for a video clip of that scene, which surely is a classic, with no luck. But for that famous scene in David Lean’s beautiful version of “Oliver Twist,” click here.

And don’t worry, I encourage all my friends to go for broke! Always ask for more! What’s the worst that can happen? You might actually have your cake and eat it, now and then! (It’s been known to happen!)

(image: carolita johnson)

Ben McGrath had the privilege of hearing both sides of the New York City bicycle question this week in “Holy Rollers”. I stand by two points of view of my own, arrived at through personal experience. Three accidents (slamming into car doors opened by awake but seemingly unconscious car passengers), have caused me to resolve never again to ride the streets of New York on two wheels. On the other hand, three weeks in Berlin, navigating the city on the specially designated and traffic-lit bicycle lanes have me rallying for similar infrastructures to be implemented in our fair city. Reader, it was heaven. The bicyclists obeyed the bicycle streetlights and signs, and I never felt safer. Read and decide for yourself. Perhaps we’re just too much of a bunch of jerks in New York to ever get it right, either way!

Ian Frazier’s “Downpaging,” in Shouts actually had me going for a little while, and I’ll tell you why. I have been known to bankrupt myself through overbuying books. For me, it really was a question of cutting back. I’ve spent thousands on books, as it’s always been second nature for me to see a book, pick it up, think about it, then buy it. All without hesitation, or the least question as to necessity. Several international moves caused me to give them all away, or settle for pennies on the dollar (or centimes on the franc) whenever I had to jettison them. If my parents said no to everything else, they’d always buy me a book. So, Ian, I don’t really see what’s so friggin’ hilarious here. It could very well happen. If only it happened more often!

Packer’s “The Megacity,” is shocking, and inspiring. And dirty in the bad, sewage overflow way. Scary in a Mad Max way. Read it and thank your lucky stars you only live in New York. (Those of you who live in smaller cities and have something to complain about, don’t make me laugh.) I thought I was tough for a New Yorker, but I wouldn’t stand a chance in Lagos. I’d cry in despair and fear till I evaporated into the polluted sky. (But don’t fuck with me in New York. I’ll mess you up.) It’s not online, but Matt Dellinger interviews Samantha Appleton on making films in Nigeria, in “Seeing Action.”

Helen Simpson’s “Greensleeves” provides a great photo of a mean looking squirrel. I think it’s the very same one I caught last year in a “humane” trap on my fire escape on 156th Street and Broadway, but had to let go when it proved too angry — did I say angry? more like it went ballistic! — to transport to Battery Park, where it would have had to take three trains to come back. (But he learned his lesson and left my morning glories alone.) As for the story, well, it seems all marriages lead to adultery! It’s short, and the squirrel gets the last laugh.

Janet Malcolm’s “Stranger than Paradise” makes you realize just what an annoying character Alice B. Toklas was, and how lucky. If it’s an ordinary person’s right to have an annoying husband or wife, well, then! Gertrude Stein’s will be all the more remarkably problematic, wouldn’t you think? Not online.

Anyone know what this green thing is? I often wonder about it. I wonder things like: is there a siren in it? Does steam come out of it when I’m not looking? Why are there vents in the top and bottom of it? Is it functional? What the heck is it?

(image: carolita johnson)

This rejected cartoon is posted in honor of my friends who have seen fit to repopulate the world, making up for my refusal to do so! Thanks, Juan! Dankeschön, Chrissi! Hello, Lucrezia! Hallo, Oskar!

But seriously, it works every time!

(Image: carolita johnson)

The other day, a self-assured, infinitely likable, well-traveled person confided in me that the thing he hates about dining out alone is that “They treat you like a leper, and they always give you a dark table where you can’t even read a book!”

I was immediately intrigued by his use of the word “leper,” which I realized I’ve rarely heard employed outside attempts to describe the experience of dining out alone! Upon reflection, and after trying to imagine anyone treating this eminently respectable person like a leper (try as I might, to no avail), I am quite convinced that the only person making the lone diner feel like a leper is… the lone diner! It has simply never happened to me anywhere, nor have I ever seen anyone regard a lone patron as a leper when I worked in restaurants myself. Perhaps you think I simply never perceived the obvious pity in so many maitre d’s, and you blush to think of my obliviousness to shame? I’ve never wanted to say “pshaw” before, but here I really must emit a hearty, “Pshaw!”

Fifteen years of living in various kitchenless rooms in Paris with nothing but a “Camping Gaz” burner and one small pot to cook my meals in, and a bathtub with a plank of wood over it for a table — forced me to overcome my initial embarrassment and become an inveterate, well-received, lone diner. I will therefore share my expertise with you.

Besides arriving with just the right amount self-confidence (not too much, but not too little) and a smile (rather than an apologetic plea for mercy on your face), another key to being treated accomodatingly, if not lavished with positive attention, is to keep going back. If you’re on the road and this isn’t likely to happen, be pleasant and project the image of a person who’ll leave a nice, 20% tip: keep in mind that one person occupying a table will invariably result in a lower tip spread over two seats than a couple would yield.

It may add to your comfort level to be aware that most hostesses or maitre d’s do not object to the custom most lone diners observe of not dallying overly long at their tables. Restaurant staff will also usually give preference to regulars — lone or not — over strangers, even when the place is crowded and fully booked. I’ve been a hostess, and I know the importance of regulars to a restaurant’s survival. We were admonished at the Café Costes (where I worked illegally for a summer) never to turn a regular away.

As for the dreaded dark table, it’s likely all the well-lit tables have already been reserved, or perhaps all the tables are rather badly lit. If you want to read, opt for bright establishments, or favor sushi bars, Japanese noodle bars, and diner counters. That said, I’ve been given extra candles upon pulling my book out at my favorite, rather dimly lit Tibetan restaurant without even having to ask.

What will people think? Whether people imagine you’re a sad sack whom nobody wants to dine with, or assume you’re simply treating yourself to a tranquil dinner temporarily relieved of your usual adoring retinue comes down to one thing: the expression on your face. Indeed, I’m sure I’ve caught socially encumbered diners coveting my solitude.

Finally, the whole point of going to a restaurant is to be served. You’re meant to enjoy it the way you’d enjoy a massage or a hard-earned vacation. I’ve noticed we Americans seem to have a proclivity for feeling guilty when served. Not so me, ever since I understood this: you are paying for this privilege! You’re contributing to the economy! As long as you are a gracious patron, you have nothing to feel guilty about, except for not enjoying it enough!

Bon appetit!

Matt Diffee’s always known what to do with rejected cartoons. He started with the Rejection Show (in cahoots with Jon Friedman), and continued with The Rejection Collection.

Normally I would not review my fellow New Yorker cartoonists here because I don’t like to toot our own horn, preferring to point to the artists and cartoonists who are our contemporaries and/or inspiration, leaving our own work for our audience to judge. But David Remnick and his beautiful and accomplished wife, Esther Fein, just threw us a party, and if they saw fit to encourage and reward our bid for negative attention with free alcohol and a pat on the back (I think Mr. Remnick was just grateful not to see some of us crying that Thursday night), then I can make an exception this once.

The thing I like best about The Rejection Collection are the questionnaires. The “draw something that will give us a clue to your childhood” is frightening (but perhaps not surprising) in its population of angry nun drawings. Images of persecution (both of and by the child cartoonist) also abound. (Not mine! I’m a pacifist!) Some of the answers to the questions are serious and there are even a few touching outbursts of earnestness. I was particularly intrigued by how many of us actually left the “for office use only” box empty, never realizing we were such an obedient lot!

What cartoonists do when they’re not cartooning, what we most fear, what we do to survive rejection: all these questions are answered, and often illustrated. Still, the key to understanding a cartoonist, is knowing you will never really understand a cartoonist. Which is why each cartoonist’s questionnaire is followed by five cartoons which will confound you further.

As for the cartoons, it goes without saying that they are completely stupid, tasteless, offensive, and… well — funny!

And what about the cartoonists who aren’t featured in The Rejection Collection? Well, obviously they’ve never had a cartoon rejected, the lucky duckies!

For your supplementary reading pleasure, read Diffee’s Huffington Post blog, here.

The Rejection Collection. Not to be confused with the Deer Rejection Collection.

(image: carolita johnson)

Steven Shapin’s “Sick City,” brought back fond memories of studying medieval and victorian theories of cleanliness and filthiness and the morals (and lack thereof) they were thought to reveal. Miasmas (the very theremin sound of the word brings forth images of floating ectomorphic contagion) and from whence they were thought to emanate, were thought to be behind all non-contagious epidemics. And now, I would like to do what the article didn’t do when it explained the etymology of the word “epidemic”:

In Ancient Greek, “epi” (επι) means upon, or on top of. And “demos” (δημος) relates to people. So an epidemic was something that descended upon a civilisation, or as Shapin says, “literally, disease coming “upon the people””.

(This is why I took Ancient Greek when it was offered to me for free in France. It makes the words we use come to life. I’d have done two years if our beloved professor, Pierre Pachet — who was a very angry Ancient Greek scholar — hadn’t punched another teacher in the nose for casting doubt over his ability to teach Ancient Greek, and got his class cancelled as punishment.**)

Paper Losses, by Lorrie Moore, is one of those stories that make you realize how exceptionally crappy a pair of human beings can become. It may save you from getting married if you are having any doubts, which is why I recommend it.

Robert Gottlieb’s “A Lost Child” brings us Minou, a child prodigy who turned her back on it all, and in some ways became an adult prodigy: how many people do you know with that capacity for release? Not online, you’ll have to read it in the magazine.

Noah Webster, in Jill Lepore’s “Noah’s Mark,” and as in Merriam-Webster, believed it was his duty not to prescribe or “proscribe” the words of a language, but rather to describe and record them as they were used, whether the English agreed or not. Not online either, and well worth reading for the list of American “barbarisms” and the goofy, but well-meaning attempts to phoneticize American pronunciation of “wimmen” and “groops.”

John Seabrook’s “Game Master” is a must for anyone who ever got addicted to “Pong” and “Space Invaders.” I’ve been clean for years, myself.

Updike is back with “Down the River,” a review of the latest annotated, “Uncle Tom’s Cabin,” and luckily spends more time on the original book itself, rather than on the oddly unscholarly annotations he provides examples of before giving up on it. A comparison to Huckleberry Finn is elegantly executed, and other people’s comparisons deftly reviewed.

Nick Paumgarten’s “Fresh Prince” may have you running out to buy Robert Greene’s book, “The 48 Laws of Power,” but if you do, you’d be well-advised not to tell your friends if you intend to live by them. I’m not going to get it. Not that I’d tell you if I did.

**Ironically, Mr. Pachet once directed a veiled accusation of cheating at me because I did so well in his class — never suspecting his excellent ability to transmit his love for the subject. Nor, understandably, suspecting my having done all the homework for his course during the summer preceding his class, for fear of not being up to learning Ancient Greek in French. (As Heraclitus said: Ηθος Ανθρωπῳ Δαιμων, or “Man’s character is his fate”!)

(The view from the 1 train, approaching 225th street, in the Bronx.)

Have a nice weekend everyone! And make sure you go vote next week! And to all you politicians out there, please cease and desist to send me emails, and stop changing your email addresses in order to sneak by my blacklists, it’s just impolite to insist. Even you, Barack Obama. I like you, but no more emails unless you’re writing to let me know you’re coming to my house for coffee and cake tomorrow.

(image: carolita johnson)

I left this one rough so you can see the kind of thing my editors have to put up with. I didn’t like the castaway’s head, but I liked everything else about the drawing and didn’t feel like re-drawing. So I did the head on another piece of paper, cut it out, and glued it on. If you look carefully, you can see the outline around his head. It’s a “rough,” after all! If it had been bought, I’d have had to redraw it on better paper, and without the ink splotches that I photoshopped out, to be courteous.